


Watson's armchair

by Tiofrean



Series: Watson's everything [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, John's armchair, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a moment on John's armchair. A hot moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson's armchair

Sherlock was seated in John's armchair. Well, he usually preferred his own, but the slightly coarse fabric felt wonderful on the naked skin of his backside. He squirmed a little, making himself comfortable. He never did it like this, completely devoid of clothing, cock hard and resting on his belly.   
Sherlock closed his eyes and placed both his hands on the arm-rests. He breathed in, slowly, kept the air for a longer moment, and then just as slowly released it. He did it again. And again. The pattern long practiced, the routine known by heart. He would relax his muscles with every exhale, feeling himself sinking in whatever comfortable surface he was resting on.   
  
Right now it happened to be John's chair.   
  
With one last exhale his breathing started to return to normal, but his mind stayed in that relaxed half-daze. He pictured John, how he looked at him two days ago, how his face turned into a perfect mix of love and desire, how his hands were gripping Sherlock and tugging him closer, and closer, and closer...   
  
Sherlock pictured those hands now, strong and sure, with all the gentleness of a lover. He wondered, how would it feel to have them pinning his body to that chair? Would John just shove him onto it and attack him like a wild animal, quick and rough? Or would he do it methodically, firmly pinning Sherlock down and slowly undoing him...   
  
The muscles in the detective thighs twitched and shifted a little, the movement exposing the delicate skin on his groin to the cold air in the room. He shifted his hands down, bringing them to his lap, running them down his thighs and up his abdomen, then down again. The slow, tantalizing movement was almost hypnotic, his skin reacting to the delicate touch.   
  
He felt warm, relaxed, he could as well fall asleep right there and then, if it hadn't been for his still hard cock, getting harder with every little twitch and squirm of his body. He shifted again which made the rough fabric under his buttocks scratch him pleasantly.   
  
He placed one hand on his cock, immediately stroking it up and down, touching the heated flesh just a little. The touch was light and teasing, provoking his hips to thrust up on their own accord. He moaned when one of such thrusts resulted in his fingertips skimming lightly over the glans.   
  
Sherlock panted, bringing the other hand between his legs, cupping his balls and massaging them slowly, pressing with his middle finger just behind them. He pressed lightly, a jolt of pleasure shooting through him. He bit his lip, refusing to moan out loud, the other hand increasing the tempo. The touch, however, remained light and teasing, even when he spread his legs even more and dipped his hand lower.   
  
Sherlock rubbed his hole, feeling it twitch slightly, and this time a groan escaped him. _God, he was still a little tender after the last time._ He smiled, pressing lightly, just the barest indication of pressure. His hips canted upwards, his hot length driving through the now slick fingers. He started to leak precome some time before which helped to ease some friction and made his touch even smoother.   
  
The detective grabbed his cock with one hand, the other, massaging the tight knot of muscles, pressed again and after a brief battle with his body, slipped inside. Just the tip, but it made Sherlock gasp silently, mouth going slack. He took the finger out and, not really caring about the hygienic aspect (sex IS messy), he brought it to his lips, licking and sucking on it, liberally coating it with saliva. After his finger was positively dripping with wetness, and his cock leaked a small puddle on his body, he placed the hand back at his entrance, pushing the finger slowly in.   
  
He moaned low in his throat, plunging the finger up as far as it would go. He paused for a moment, breathing hard. The air around him suddenly felt warm and electric. Sherlock relished those few seconds of stillness. He breathed in and out again, smelling the scent of his own arousal, the underlying aroma of Baker Street and something else, something smelling of home and love.   
  
He turned his head to the side, cheek resting on the back of the armchair. Sherlock breathed in a long and shuddery breath, his nostrils filling with the exquisite smell.   
  
John.   
  
God, the backrest, the seat, the sides.... the whole armchair smelled of John, and right now Sherlock, one finger deep inside his ass and his left hand squeezing his dick, he wanted to just turn around and rub himself all over the rough fabric, to mix John's scent with his own...   
  
The thought of doing it in front of John, the doctor fully clothed and watching from Sherlock's armchair as his enamored detective rubbed himself to completion on his chair, ass-naked and cock leaking....   
  
Sherlock moaned longingly, ass shifting down and trying to take in even more of his finger. He turned a little, leaning sideways, resting his back on one of the armrests. One of his legs came up, bracing him against the opposite one. He took the finger out and, turning his face to smell the fabric that covered the armchair once again, he pushed two of his digits inside his tight opening.  
  
The angle was awkward, his fingers not enough to even come close to his sweet spot, but the added stretch and John's scent made him whimper, his other hand moving with an increasing rhythm over his manhood. He started to squirm, trying to get to his prostate, to at least brush it with his fingers. All for naught, he couldn't really reach it like this.   
  
Frustrated and disappointed, he tried to curl in on himself even more, but with no luck. He whimpered loudly, head almost pressing on the raised knee. He opened his eyes a fraction, looking to his right.   
  
“Please...” he whispered, moaning at the end. It was a desperate plea, his hand was still moving fast on his cock, his breathing labored, and the miserable tone in his voice earned him a response. A sudden movement, a little shifting, and his hands were tugged gently away, placed on the front of a soft jumper. One firm hand brushed through his hair, fussing the sweaty curls carefully, the other ran down his chest, over his ribs and down, to the hard and leaking cock.   
  
Sherlock moaned loudly when the hand on his lap closed over his hot flesh. His hips jerked, seeking friction, which caused his skin to scrape over the fabric covering the chair. The shock it produced was positively electric, traveling from Sherlock's bare ass straight to his spine and pooling there.   
  
“Please” Sherlock whispered, body jerking in the confined space between the two arm-rests. A soft kiss was placed on his forehead, the second and more hungry – on his lips. Another landed on the center of his chest. The fourth one on the tip of his cock.   
  
Te detective cried out weakly, body moving restlessly, trembling with the need to come. His constant squirming made his skin burn from friction caused by the fabric underneath him, his muscles ached from keeping the long body twisted in such an awkward position. He could feel the hand on his cock stroking him slowly once, up and down. And then a tight wet heat engulfed him and he was lost.   
  
“John!” He whimpered, trying to move his hips, but the doctor held him with one hand. He was kneeling beside the armchair, one arm thrown across Sherlock's abdomen, pinning him down. His other skimmed down, massaging his balls, before it dipped lower. The detective could feel every little twitch John's fingers made as they moved down to his entrance.  
  
And then John pushed them inside, making Sherlock hiss and twist. He shoved them to the hilt and withdrew again, carefully seeking for the other man's sweet spot, all the time sucking at his cock. The angle was awkward, with the doctor on Sherlock's side, rather than between his legs, but he finally managed to find his prostate.   
  
The detective was soon trashing his head from side to side, little mewling noises escaping his lips. With one particularly firm press of John's fingers his whole body jerked, cock jumping in John's mouth. The doctor just smiled, as evilly as a man with a hard member inside his mouth could. He shoved the fingers inside at the same angle again. And again.   
  
Sherlock was unaware of anything beside John's mouth on him sucking hard, his deft fingers massaging him, and that damned armchair weakening whatever leverage he might have to push himself down or up seeking friction.   
  
John moaned, and the vibration sent a hot wave spiraling down the detective's spine. He opened his eyes, looking down and had to groan out loud. John's lips were obscenely wet with his saliva and precome, fingers working hard, brow creased in concentration.   
  
“John” he half-whispered, half-moaned, and the doctor's eyes snapped open. He shifted a little, managing to look at Sherlock. Just when the detective opened his mouth again to moan something out, John pulled off enough to run his tongue along the sensitive slip on the tip of his length, his fingers pressing inside Sherlock's body with quick little jabs.   
  
He moaned again, vibrating around Sherlock's head and that was it for the detective. His back arched and lips fell open in a silent cry. The doctor kept sucking as he emptied himself, hips trying to buck up even with John's arm pinning him down. Sherlock's vision went white and the only thing he was aware of was John. John's mouth on his cock, John's fingers in his ass. John's breath on his skin.   
  
John here, with him, keeping him safe.   
  
When he blinked himself out of the hazy post-coital state, John was leaning on him, head resting on the detective's pale stomach, hands hugging his waist. Sherlock ran one hand through his hair, smiling softly.   
“Thank you” he whispered, making John grin and his eyes crinkle happily. Sherlock looked down, toward the doctor's lap.   
  
“What do you want?” He asked, but the doctor just shook his head, still smiling. Sherlock frowned.   
“When you had your eyes closed, earlier... When you... erm” John blushed a little, clearing his throat.   
  
“When you used your fingers... that was hot, you know? And I sort of couldn't wait anymore” he grinned again at Sherlock's wide smile.   
“Well, we'll have to repeat it sometime soon. Not in the armchair, though... I'll get a butt-burn from that damned fabric” the genius concluded, trying to stretch his leg out. John giggled, then smiled softly.   
“I think I like to see you in this chair for a change. You look hot, especially like this” he grinned, running his fingertips lightly over Sherlock's ribs.   
  
The detective froze in horror as John's grin widened, showing his teeth. He flexed his fingers, provoking a loud squeal from Sherlock. The detective would always deny it, but John knew all his weak spots.   
  
And right then he proceeded to tickle him breathless.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm growing really addicted to this series. Does anyone have propositions for future installments?


End file.
